The wind, one brilliant day, called
I recently dusted off my old Rolleiflex TLR after many years of digital-only photography. This shot from a roll of expired Tri-X reminds me of one of my favorite poems from the great Chinese Tang Dynasty poet, Tu Fu. It's from Rexroth's wonderful translation, One Hundred Poems from the Chinese.
The camera was given to me by my mother-in-law, who recently passed away. She bought it new in the early 1960s, so it's been in the family for 50+ years. Thinking of her and this photograph and how the years – and lives – slip away, fills me with the poignancy expressed in Tu Fu's poem. I know she would be pleased that her Rollei is being put to use.
JADE FLOWER PALACE
The stream swirls. The wind moans in
Photograph above by Edouard Boubat
I recently downloaded to my iPad all the available past issues of Bill Jay's camera journal, Album. The PDFs can be found here. The publication lasted one year – 1970 – but contains photographs of and writings by and about many of the world's greats up to that point. I browse issues from time to time and always find something inspiring.
The final issue has a selection of images by French photographer, Edouard Boubat, along with a wonderful introduction to him. I wanted to share a Boubat quote from the opening paragraph that particularly resonates with me and, I hope, with you:
I am not concerned with the photograph as an end result. I am much more concerned with reacting to reality. This is why I do not like to manipulate the image or set up the subject. If life is rich enough there is no need to distort or adapt it. I am not interested photographers' philosophies, concepts or opinions about pictures. Photography is inextricable wrapped up with life. My way is to simplify—simplify my mind, my life, my way of working. I want to be more and more naked, and only to push the button. Photographers are often angry and a little horrified at this admission. But I do not believe photographers have anything to do but to live, to live very intensely. That is enough. They must focus their attention intensely on the subject. Photographs should be like poems. If my pictures give the viewers a good feeling, that is all that I dare hope for. Photography is my whole life. There is no gap between my picture-making and my living. They are the same thing."
More of Boubat's work here on Google images.
I don't photograph homeless people. But as I waited for my daughter in front of the French bakery in Logan Square, there she was, rummaging just a few feet away through a sidewalk trash can. The scene broke my heart. It was one of those rare moments in which the reality that swirls unnoticed around us each day suddenly stops and magnifies. I took the photo.
I watched her open discarded coffee cups and styrofoam food containers looking for remains—calmly, naturally, as if this is what one does on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. I watched people stream by—lovers, children, her peers—enjoying their day, as though everything was right with the world. I wondered about her life, her family, what brought her to this point.Mostly I felt sadness, nearly to the point of tears. It wasn't just that moment, but imagining all the moments of her history that brought her to this place, this time, this fate.
Several days later, this image still haunts me. I feel shame for not offering something; a loaf of bread, some cash, any kindness. This is my own plight. But of hers, what can be said? There are no words. Sometimes the pathos of life, the indifference, is almost too much to bear.
Sujata is a pivotal figure in Buddhist lore and a symbol of piety and service. The daughter of a wealthy cowherder, the story says she heard that a deity had manifested in a grove near her home. Seeking a blessing, she prepared an elaborate offering and took it to the forest. The god, in fact, was Buddha, who, after six years of extreme asceticism, had that day discovered the Middle Way and had decided to resume eating. It is said that her simple porridge—his first meal—fortified him so much so that he resolved to not rise from his meditations until he attained enlightenment. History records that he did so under the bodh tree that night.
In ancient India, in a forest near Senani,
For some reason, I think of her today—
They say she milked a thousand cows,
My hammock slows its gentle arc.
A little rice, some honey, her best bowl,
Maples swirl the blue of sky,
She did not know the god was Buddha.
On my face the touch of final sun.
Her last awareness before the gift
Photo by Shomei Tomatsu
My wife and I attended a wonderful show at the Art Institute of Chicago by Japanese photographer and writer, Shomei Tomatsu. It was unique for the combination of his powerful photographs and elegant prose. We liked the show so much we went back again the next day.
Can we consider photographs to be similar to words? Even if you pile up a lot of single pictures, you can't restrict the meanings of the pictures, can you? For me, the work is not connecting photograph and photograph, but connecting photograph and text. Putting together pictures with pictures, the aim is not to stop them from speaking, but to increase their speech.
It's hard to argue with Somatsu's perspective on photographs and meaning. Words and pictures are both symbols. Neither is the thing it represents. But humanity has a long history of applying increasing precision to language, while much less so to pictures. A few images have acquired specific and shared meanings; the cross, the octagonal shape of a stop sign, a raised middle finger. But by and large, images remain a comparatively subjective means of communicating. Combined, however, the evocative quality of photographs and the explanatory power of prose create an art form that may be unmatched in expressing meaning.
More of his work at The New Yorker
I rarely ask to take photos on the street, but I stopped and chatted with this man. He's a street harmonica performer, who sits in the morning sun at the eastern mouth of a long, wide tunnel under Chicago's Lake Shore Drive, using the tunnel as his amplifier. The sound is remarkable. I tipped. We talked. Before 9/11, he said, he could take in $400 on a Saturday. Now he's lucky if he breaks 50. "That changed people," he said. "Made us all suspicious."
Among the many wonders on display at the Art Institute of Chicago are two adjoining rooms dedicated to ancient religious art of Southeast Asia. Buddhas, Shivas, Ganeshes, and many other representations of gods, goddesses, demons, and their manifestations fill that space. I feel a deep affinity for some of the Buddhas, their postures, expressions, and mudras. My heart greets them in hidden namaste.
Whenever I visit the museum, I welcome a walk through those rooms. I'm sure the various sculptures and castings were created with all sorts of motives--some noble and devout, some vain and base. Still, the place feels sacred to me, like a temple, charged with thousands of years of human desire for transcendence.
Rising late today, just before sunrise,
Out of the mouths of these shapes
What is it out there that needs me?
Soon the froth and noise still.
Returning, I rise lightly, smile,
Photograph by Allen Ginsberg
Last weekend I attended a moving Sunday discourse by renowned spiritual Master and meditation teacher, Sant Rajinder Singh Ji Maharaj. It was the final talk of his winter visit to the Chicago area. He opened by commenting on the day's cold weather (in the teens), and noted how we cover ourselves with clothing, layer upon layer, as temperatures drop in our part of the world. Using this as a metaphor, he then suggested that the same process marks our emotional lives, as we erect increasingly denser psychological coverings to protect ourselves from life's coldness and the many hurts we experience as we grow. Advancing into our 40s, 50s, and beyond, we may congeal, as the bricks in these walls accumulate and destroy the spirit of open-heartedness we knew as children and youths. Ultimately, he said, we may awake one day to the sad realization that we no longer have any true friends.
Always an optimist, with remarkable conviction in the spiritual resources within each of us, the remainder of his discourse centered on our potential to regain that love and fellow-feeling by strengthening our spiritual values and connecting with the divinity within ourselves through meditation.
Coincidentally, on the morning before the discourse, a friend emailed me an excerpt from an essay on Allen Ginsberg's photographs. Known, of course, as a seminal Beat poet, Ginsberg was also an active photographer, first casually on his own, and later more seriously with advice from his friend, Robert Frank. The photographs offer an engaging portrait of his pals, pivotal characters of modern American culture. Googling a bit, I traced the excerpt back to an essay by Matthew Smolinsky at the blog OBSCURA. It's a wonderful piece, the first in a series. The other parts can be found here.
Listening to Sant Rajinder Singh Ji Maharaj's opening remarks, my thoughts returned to what I had read earlier that day, in one of those unexpected but welcome juxtapositions of significance. In particular, I remembered the sense of community and open sharing represented by this paragraph:
"Faith in the sanctity of art and the moment of creation, and the confessional spirit of their work, made the Beat movement not only artistic but spiritual in nature. It is a lineage going back to writers like Rimbaud, Proust, Walt Whitman, and William Carlos Williams, and spiritual philosophers like Socrates and Milarepa. The Beats believed in reading their work aloud when possible, and they read the work of others voraciously - often aloud to each other. They generally approached art as a communal experience where everything was shared. They collaborated freely with artists in other mediums, and as mature artists they taught and mentored young artists."
What touches me in this essay is the feeling of "communal experience" and open sharing that Smolinski describes. I suspect most of us fondly recall that intimacy among friends from our own youth and young adulthood. Maybe I should speak only for myself, but I look at my life now and the lives of my friends, and it seems we all are like speeding trains traveling parallel tracks. It's wonderful that that we all are pursuing shared goals of personal and spiritual growth and creativity. It's wonderful that our tracks still cross often, and when they do we delight in each other's company. But meaningful connections seem fewer and fewer as the years go by. And I'm pretty sure I'm not romanticizing the past.
Perhaps, as Sant Rajinder Singh Ji said, isolation is an unfortunate coping mechanism against life's relentless wear. Perhaps it's also an inescapable consequence of modern times, with dual-income families facing the realities of economic survival. Or, maybe it's our era of virtual communications, where emailing and tweeting replace face-to-face communication. Whatever the cause or causes, this growing sense of aloneness surely can, at least to some extent, be reversed. Two things I am certain of: Deepening our spirit of community is surely worth trying, and to do so, we can only look to ourselves.
A Leica User Forum member shared this video on Daido Moriyama discussing his work and process. I find it remarkable. I share it, not because I'm enamored with his photography, but because the video crystallizes a point with which I have been preoccupied for the last two years. It's a theme I've come to believe is central to a meaningful creative life, whether our medium of choice is music, poetry, or a visual art.
What moves me is Moriyama's description of the vision behind his street photography: "For me cities are enormous bodies of people's desires, and I search for my own desires within them. I slice into time, seeing the moment. That's the kind of camera work I like." Later he adds, "I see Shinjuku as a stadium of people's desires...where overcrowded and jumbled thoughts and desires are whirling. I can't photograph anything without a city."
His interest in desire strikes me as a particularly Buddhist vision. Buddhism, after all, is a faith grounded in desire as the root of delusion and limitation. Of course, human desire runs the gamut from base to noble. Moriyama, known for his "snapshots" of life in the dim alleys of Shinjuku, Tokyo, seems to relish desire's darker interiors. Whether or not we agree with his view of humanity, whether or not we like his work, few could fail to admire his self-knowledge and conviction and what it has done for him as an artist. What I like about this video is how it underscores the role of a strong philosophical foundation in artistic pursuits. Whatever we happen to believe in, it seems to me that ideas and ideals are vital to any creative endeavor that is to have depth and unity, and to sustain us creatively over years and decades.
In his powerful book, Negative/Positive: A Philosophy of Photography, critic Bill Jay describes this approach as "values-driven" photography. The book is at once a diatribe against the modern focus on artistic product, and a call to center photography on the photographer and his/her belief system. In short, it's not about our pictures; it's about who we are and what we believe.
In a chapter entitled "From Humanism to Heroism," Jay digests his viewpoint into a call for a new artistic standard—the "hero" photographer:
"The hero is an individual who cares not a fig for his own nakedness and vulnerability, and his only passion is the search for truth. He does not "fit-in" a group or style or movement since he is not interested in systems but only in the striving toward his own completeness as a human being. This struggle to be free, to creatively express his own life-attitudes, makes him seem arrogant, sometimes abrasive, always indifferent to the pettiness of others. Above all, the hero's single-minded objective is to live more intensely. The overflow of this intensity will be shared with others in the form of photographs, but the hero is not concerned with good or bad but only in the act of struggle toward a higher level of existence."
Jay concludes his book with a practical, step-by-step model for anyone serious about taking his or her photography deeper. I oversimplify, but the steps are these:
I don't know much about Moriyama personally, and I'm not a fan of his point of view. But I'd place him among the hero artists Jay's describes, and I think the Moriyama we meet in this video would map well to Jay's model. It's not that there is anything wrong with casual shooting, purely for enjoyment. But at some point in life we must grow and mature. I love what James Wright wrote about his own poetic aspirations: "The kind of poetry I want to write is the poetry of a grown man." Photography, it seems to me, can be both a facilitator and an indicator of that growth. Self-knowledge and its expression may not guarantee a stellar body of work. But without an understanding of and commitment to our beliefs, we will forever be shooting surfaces and peripheries.
At seventy-four years old, Daido Moriyama has been roaming the same Tokyo streets for over fifty years and, as he says in the video, "could never see the city with an old man's eyes or as if I understood everything." My guess is that a large part of that longevity and creativity—as well as his acclaim—is a direct result of having consciously aligned his life and his art.
I was recently looking through some of my Agfachromes from the 1970s. While most were shooting Kodachrome back then, I favored this slide film for its low contrast, soft, warm colors, and lovely grain. The image below reminded me of a favorite poem by the 15th century mystic and poet, Kabir Sahib.
Kabir is considered the founder of the Sant tradition in India, and he is among the few spiritual figures claimed by both Hindus and Muslims. There are many translations of his poetry, but none I've read matches the beauty and power of Rabindranath Tagore's book, The Songs of Kabir. In Indian mystic literature a common term for the soul is hansa or swan.
Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale.
My good friend and fellow photographer, Howard Linton, invited me to comment on the photograph above in a guest post on his blog. You can read the post here. Thanks, Howard. I enjoyed reflecting on your wonderful image.
There aren't many things I relish about Midwest winters, but among them is the quality of light on days just before and after the Winter Solstice, which here occurs around the third week of December. The sun crosses the sky on its southernmost arc, spilling wonder through the south and north windows of my home. I take breaks from my office work periodically throughout the day to observe and photograph. Especially at about 9:00 AM and 4:00 PM something interesting always seems to be on display, as the soft, low light interacts with objects inside, giving even the most mundane things significance.
Here are a couple recent pictures and a well-known poem on the subject by Emily Dickinson.
by Emily Dickinson
There's a certain Slant of light,
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
None may teach it – Any –
When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Something of what you were lingers
like the sense of lost love, like a child
knows. At some point the inevitable—
you grow and pass through
you were certain would not end.
for a while, as the one you have
Now, past is gone, future is gone
none of you could have imagined
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© All images and text copyright John Wolf
John Wolf lives, writes